To Mrs. Anne Flaxman by William Blake

A little Flower grew in a lonely Vale.
Its form was lowly but its colours pale.
One standing the in Porches of the Sun,
When his Meridian Glories were begun,
Leap’d from the steps of fire and on the grass
Alighted where this little flower was.
With hands divine he mov’d the gentle Sod
And took the Flower up in its native Clod;
Then planting it upon a Mountain’s brow –
“’Tis your own fault if you don’t flourish now.”

 

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